


Ye Will Be Playing with Fyre

by Temmy_Silver



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Blood, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crying, Demon Blood, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Major Character Injury, Memory Alteration, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-29 13:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temmy_Silver/pseuds/Temmy_Silver
Summary: After the Great Rebellion, Fallen angels had writhed in Hell for days. Their bodies twisted and morphed from the absence of Her love and light.  Those who survived the transformation in one piece were unrecognizable, turned into vengeful, hate-filled creatures that clawed their way back up to Earth in order to wreak havoc. What would a second Fall do to a demon?A different take on the meaning of Agnes Nutter's final prophecy.(This work is finished! I don't know why Ao3 won't let me change the question mark in the chapter display to a four!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 91
Collections: My faves - Good Omens Whump





	1. To Blaze the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> The tags make this fic sound way more violent than it actually is, but it is an angst train until the end. Happy reading!

The angels were about to announce their demonic help when Gabriel’s phone started to ring.

He pressed his lips into a thin line as Uriel, Sandalphon, and the bound Aziraphale all stared at him in turn. Gabriel could tell it was Michael calling, angels didn’t need such things as caller ID, but he hesitated to answer. This was the moment that this traitorous, not to mention _annoying_, angel realized his fate, and Gabriel was anxious to move things along. However, he knew where his sister was at the moment, and if the denizens of Hell were giving her trouble… 

“Excuse me,” Gabriel said, forcing a smile. “I have to take this.”

Aziraphale gave a much more genuine grin. “Of course,” he said, then splayed his hands as best he could. “It’s not as if I’m going anywhere.”

Aziraphale was facing his doom and he still managed to chuckle at his own dumb joke. Gabriel glared and stalked out of the room.

“What?!” he whispered into the phone through his teeth once he was out of earshot. He didn’t shut the door behind him.

_“We need to cancel the Hellfire,”_ Michael said immediately.

“What? What are you talking about? Aziraphale’s a traitor and-”

_“You don’t understand, Gabriel!”_ she interrupted, distress evident in her voice. _“The demon- Crowley- he’s immune to Holy Water!”_

Gabriel paused. “Michael, that’s ridiculous.”

_“I saw it, Gabriel! He was soaked, he was enjoying it, he-”_

Gabriel heard her draw a breath to compose herself. _“He made me miracle him a bath towel.”_

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

_“Gabriel, if he can touch Holy Water, then what else can he do? What will he do to_ us _if we murder his friend?”_

Gabriel’s gaze flicked back into the room, resting on the captured angel. He gritted his teeth. “We can’t just let him go, Michael. I _won’t_ just let him go. Justice must be dealt!” 

_“I know, I know… I think there’s one last thing we can do at this point.”_

Inside, the demon the angels thought was Aziraphale shifted in the seat he was tied to, trying to remain as divine as he could. He stayed properly seated even when his figurative gut sank as Gabriel strode back into the room, announcing there were new plans for his punishment.

*****

The real Aziraphale sauntered out of Hell without so much as a scratch, keeping up his performance as Crowley long after the gate to the underworld was slammed behind him. He only allowed himself to relax a little when he made his way into St. James Park, taking his own usual seat on a bench and folding his hands in his lap. 

He couldn’t wait until Crowley showed up; he thought the demon would appreciate hearing about the antics he’d performed in Hell. All he had to do now was wait for his friend’s return. And so he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

… 

Now, Aziraphale could be extremely patient when he needed to be, but the circumstances weren’t exactly standard. Over two hours had passed, and a growing anxiety was eating away at his stomach. He and Crowley had followed Agnes Nutter’s prophecy and Aziraphale was fine. So where was Crowley?

Was it possible Heaven and Hell were still watching? Aziraphale quickly scooched to the other side of the bench and did his best to mimic Crowley’s casual sprawl. He tried to stay like that, but after another twenty minutes found he couldn’t keep still. He got up and began to approach people.

“Excuse me,” he said to one woman, “have you seen a man about this- I mean _this_\- tall? Red- blond!- hair, a tan suit, tartan bow tie?”

She hadn’t. Neither had the next 206 people he asked. Hours had gone by, and Aziraphale was getting more and more desperate. The sun was starting to set, and he was about to leave the park to try to find Crowley when he stopped dead from a sudden feeling coming from deep within him.

“Stars are out early tonight,” he heard someone murmur. Aziraphale looked upwards.

A single white dot was in the pink and orange sky, and although it was indeed far away, that “star” was much closer to the Earth than anyone could have guessed. It also happened to be speeding away from where a gate to Heaven had just been opened.

Aziraphale moved as if in a daze, eventually sitting on a bench he thought was closest to where Crowley was going to land. He felt sick, powerless to do anything but watch his friend’s fiery descent.

As time passed and the light Crowley gave off grew, people started to stop and point. Then ducks and other animals fled as the river’s temperature rose. When it was obvious the strange light in the sky was crashing, the humans screamed and ran out of the park, some accusing Crowley of being a falling meteorite and others that he was a satellite. Nobody spared Aziraphale a glance as he approached the edge of the river. Eventually he could make out the form of Crowley’s burning body- which was really _Aziraphale’s_ burning body- and then it was another ten seconds before the demon plummeted into the St. James river.

Just before the splash, Aziraphale performed several large miracles at once.

The first to stand his ground so that he wouldn’t be knocked back by the waves.

Another so that neither he nor any stray animals or people struck by the water would be burned.

One last one made the river suddenly deeper, deep enough so that Crowley wouldn’t crash into the mud and broken rocks.

Once all that was done and Crowley’s dive was finished, Aziraphale raised the level of the river back to its normal depth. He saw Crowley start to rise to the surface, and dove in after him.

“Crow-!” he started to yell once he got his head back above the water, but then saw the Eye of Heaven, staring down on the two of them like a helicopter shines its spotlight on a fugitive. “Ah- Aziraphale!” Aziraphale shouted instead.

It was quite unsettling, seeing his own corporeal form as if it had Fallen. Tattered clothes, burned and blistered skin, and black, battered wings that felt that if they weren’t currently drenched, they would still be on fire. Aziraphale grabbed Crowley around the torso with one arm and did an awkward backstroke with the other. He eventually managed to haul Crowley onto land and knelt down next to him.

“Wake up! Please my… angel. Please, wake up,” Aziraphale sobbed, cradling Crowley’s face. The demon gave no reaction.

The Eye of Heaven still focused on them, highlighting every gruesome feature of Crowley’s mangled body. Perhaps Aziraphale decided to give one last performance as Crowley, or maybe he was just angry. Either way, Aziraphale turned his head to the sky and yelled, “Fuck _off!_”

The Eye snapped shut, leaving them in the night’s darkness. Aziraphale looked back to his friend. “Crowley, you have to wake up,” he choked out. “It’s over now, my dear, we did it! Please, you must wake up.”

Again, Crowley made no sound or movement. Aziraphale moved one of his hands to the back of the demon’s head, lifting it up slightly as he leant down to kiss Crowley’s forehead. He stayed there for some time, and he felt the two of them switch back to their normal corporeal forms. When Aziraphale sat back up, he saw that Crowley’s usual clothes were intact, while his own were in ribbons. Crowley’s body still reflected the terrible wounds from his descent, and the sight of him made Aziraphale’s heart break that much more. The demon’s wings had melded back into the ethereal plane during the switch, so Aziraphale couldn’t see the effects a second Fall had on them.

Human authorities were flooding into the park, and it was obvious Crowley wasn’t going to regain consciousness anytime soon. Aziraphale, still crying, but silently now, moved one arm to support Crowley’s back, and the other underneath his knees. He lifted the demon up with ease. Crowley wasn’t heavy in the first place and, being a Principality, Aziraphale was much stronger than his body suggested.

Aziraphale made his way out of the park with Crowley in his arms. The humans didn’t pay them any mind, and in the morning no one would be able to explain the strange growing light or the eruption of water the St. James river had made. Perhaps it was just another one of those mass hallucinations.

At the edge of the park Aziraphale blinked, and the Bentley appeared before them. He had refrained from driving it that morning, but felt he had no choice now. The back door opened on its own, and Aziraphale laid Crowley down on the seats.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m going to fix you right up. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Given Crowley’s agonizing silence and stillness, Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he said this for the demon’s benefit or his own.

Wiping tears from his cheeks, Aziraphale closed the back door and opened the driver’s side, sliding behind the steering wheel. He debated for a moment, then began to head toward Crowley’s flat. The Bentley didn’t need its key to start, it sensed the danger and obeyed the command to move willingly. Aziraphale drove slow, both out of an innate desire to obey the law and not wanting to jostle his friend. He doubted any amount of jostling would wake Crowley at this point, though. Looking at the state he was in, Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever wake up at all.

He couldn’t let that thought over take him. If there was any chance Crowley could recover, Aziraphale had to take it. He had pushed Crowley so much during their encounter with Satan, he wasn’t about to play the hypocrite and let himself despair now. Aziraphale would be the first angel to try to heal someone who had Fallen.

Twice.


	2. To Burn the Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, more angst! Thank you all so much for the support last chapter, it means the world to me, especially since this is my first fic.  
I plan on updating every day, so the whole thing should be uploaded two days from now. Happy reading!

Three months had passed since Aziraphale had driven Crowley home, and in that time the demon had not moved a centimeter on the bed Aziraphale had laid him on. Aziraphale had tried to miracle his suit back into its proper state, but because of his distress, the clothes still showed obvious signs they had been torn. Some strips were only sewn back together partway, fluffing out in frayed spots. Others were overdone, leaving heavy seams along the lines.

Through consistent bouts of healing, Aziraphale had managed to rid Crowley’s body of the awful burns that had ravaged him after the second Fall. It was exhausting work (Aziraphale had definitely lost some weight, both because of the energy required to slowly heal such unnatural injuries and because he hadn’t eaten since he arrived at Crowley’s flat, not wanting to leave his friend’s side), and still Crowley showed no signs of waking up soon.

Aziraphale had taken up the chore of watering Crowley’s plants, and although they were all still _alive_, none seemed as _lush_ as they had been under Crowley’s care. Except one. One of the tinier ones, perhaps the tiniest, was being particularly stubborn about how it presented itself. It had also developed a habit whenever Aziraphale was done tending to it.

The plant was perched on a shelf just outside Crowley’s bedroom, and so it was always the first to be watered. Aziraphale would spray it and nothing would happen, but as soon as his back was turned the plant would lay a tiny leaf on his shoulder as if saying, “Hey, wait! You have to tell me how he’s doing!” Up until now, Aziraphale had either avoided the question or told of what burns had been alleviated. As of today it had been a week since Crowley’s injuries had healed, and when the tiny plant put its tiny leaf on Aziraphale’s shoulder the angel simply said, “I don’t know.” He shook off the plant and watered the rest.

When he was finished he headed back into Crowley’s room and took the seat he’d placed beside the demon’s bed. Aziraphale gazed at Crowley’s unmoving face and heaved a deep sigh.

After the Great Rebellion, Fallen angels had writhed in Hell for days. Their bodies twisted and morphed from the absence of Her love and light. Some weren’t able to handle it, their essences either splitting up to become common lesser demons or withering away into absolute nothing. Those who survived the transformation in one piece were still unrecognizable, turned into vengeful, hate-filled creatures that clawed their way back up to Earth in order to wreak havoc.

Crowley had once told Aziraphale that he “didn’t really Fall,” and Aziraphale became convinced that Crowley hadn’t really lost his sense of goodness because of it. This time the Fall was genuine, Aziraphale had seen it.

Aziraphale splayed a hand on Crowley’s chest and closed his eyes, willing his sensors to travel down into Crowley’s true being. He could feel _something_ swirling around in there, trying to repair itself. But when it finally succeeded, would Crowley still be _Crowley?_

Aziraphale pushed the thought from his mind and removed his hand. He was still exhausted from his constant efforts to heal Crowley, and with one last, longing look at the demon, Aziraphale fell asleep.

*****

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how long he slept, but he awoke with a start to the sound of clanging and swearing.

Gripping the sides of his chair, Aziraphale looked to the bed and found it empty. The sheets were pushed to the foot of the bed and halfway falling off the other side. Aziraphale turned and saw that the bedroom door was ajar. He sat motionless, not quite willing after three months of waiting to believe what was happening.

Another quiet curse came from the hallway.

Aziraphale rose, making his way to the door and pushing it ca-re-ful-ly open. He walked down the hallway, keeping his ears strained for any more noises.

The sounds of someone rooting around brought Aziraphale into the living room, where Crowley knelt behind his desk, digging through its drawers. Normally Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to see Crowley at this angle, but the demon’s wings were spread out in full view. Every once in a while they would shake a bit, pulling in, and then Crowley would swear as they bounced back out. It was as if he were trying to retract them back into the ethereal plane but couldn’t. They looked- and Aziraphale would have laughed at this notion if he weren’t so stunned- like crow wings. Before, the demon’s wings were an extremely dark grey, like the ashes of a campfire. Now they were pitch black, glinting purple in the right light.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered.

The demon’s head peeked over the top of his desk, and Crowley’s serpentine eyes met Aziraphale’s teal ones.

“Angel.”

Any hope that Aziraphale had built up was crushed. There was no love in the word that Crowley had so often used as an endearment, only venom. Crowley stood and backed away, baring his teeth. “What do you want? Come to smite me?”

Aziraphale only blinked, staring with his mouth slightly open. “Smite- My dear, surely you must be joking.” He started walking toward Crowley. “Please tell me you’re-”

“Stay _back!_” Crowley hissed, retreating a few steps again. Aziraphale stopped. The hatred that Aziraphale had been dreading to see was evident in Crowley’s eyes, but there was something else that made Aziraphale’s stomach sink even further. Fear.

Crowley was _terrified_ by the sight of Aziraphale.

“I saw you beside my bed,” Crowley continued. “Watching me sleep, eh? How long have you been spying on me?”

This was too much, Aziraphale’s eyes welled up with tears. “Crowley…”

“Don’t try to pull that on me!” Crowley spat. “You lot think you’re so much better than everyone else. You’re just here to wipe one more speck of dirt off the Earth, right?” 

Crowley tried to retract his wings again, then seemed to grimace in pain as he couldn’t. Instead, he steeled himself, spreading his hands wide and taking a deep breath. “Well, go ahead then. Kill me.”

Aziraphale was flabbergasted. “My dear, I could never kill you! Not ever!”

“What the fuck do you keep calling me ‘dear’ for?” Crowley’s hands collapsed to his sides and disgust returned to his face. “Either kill me or get out!”

“Crowley, don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale scoffed, one tear rolling down his cheek. “It’s me, Aziraphale! We’ve been friends for-”

“_Friends?!_” Crowley yelled. “I would never be friends with a stuck-up, featherbrained angel! Now get _out!_”

The two of them stood there for a moment. Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face desperately for a spark of recognition, a sign that the demon didn’t really mean what he said, and could find none.

“Alright,” Aziraphale said. He miracled himself inside his bookshop, which had grown even dustier than usual in the months he’d been gone. Without the presence of even houseplants to watch him, Aziraphale burst into tears.


	3. To Flay the Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three down, one to go! Hope you guys enjoy, happy reading!

Crowley was more than a little surprised when the angel, his rival and inherent enemy, actually left. When he had woken up to see the creature beside him, Crowley had thought he was going to be killed then and there. After five solid minutes of nothing happening had passed, he slowly pushed the sheets down and slid out of bed, never taking his eyes off the angel. 

He crept towards the door and opened it, but the creature still slept. If its rest wasn’t feigned, how long had it been spying on him?

Crowley had long kept a weapon for a situation like this, and planned to kill this angel before it woke. Lucky for the creature, he hadn’t been able to find the weapon. Lucky for Crowley, the creature apparently didn’t want him dead.

Crowley could only wonder why the angel hadn’t smote him, and why his weapon wasn’t in his safe behind the _Mona Lisa_… 

*****

Aziraphale moped in his bookshop for over two weeks before he decided to do anything. He was supposed to be helping his friend recover, and here he was feeling sorry for himself. Crowley would never get back to normal on his own, but he knew he couldn’t just head back over to the demon’s flat, not while he was so hostile. Better to just give him a call.

Aziraphale rubbed his face, stood from the chair he’d been seated in, and walked to his phone. He didn’t even have to think when he dialed Crowley’s number, muscle memory did it automatically.

He raised the phone to his ear as it rang out. Aziraphale didn’t expect Crowley to pick up, but it still hurt when the demon’s voice said, “_Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style._”

_Beep_

Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying not to lose his composure. “Crowley? My dear, it’s me, Aziraphale.” He licked his lips. “Please listen to me, just for a moment. I know you must be quite confused right now, or at least have a few questions. I can explain everything, Crowley, if you’ll let me. Do give me a call back, my dear. Or just pop by the bookshop.”

He paused. “In Soho, dear, if you don’t remember. ‘A. Z. Fell and Co.’ It’s always open to you. …Goodbye, then.”

With a shaky hand, Aziraphale hung up the phone. He set both hands on the cluttered table and closed his eyes, sighing. So many things had changed since the Apocalypse-that- wasn’t, in Heaven, Hell, and on Earth. But the message on Crowley’s ansaphone was the same. Crowley had still been Crowley when he had recorded it.

For less than a second, Aziraphale wondered if the final memory he’d ever have of the real Crowley would be the demon in a body that wasn’t his own, tied up and being dragged to his doom, but still trying to warn Aziraphale through the gag they’d taped on him. Then Aziraphale walked to the front doors and flipped the sign to “open.”

*****

Crowley didn’t bother answering his phone when he heard it ring. He was too busy studying the statue in his hallway.

Two winged figures, an angel and a demon, sparred on a pedestal. The demon was clearly winning. Their method for fighting, however, was rather… evocative. Crowley couldn’t quite remember the reason he had it, and looking at it gave him a headache.

_“Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do, do it with style.”_

_ Beep_

_ “Crowley? My dear, it’s me, Aziraphale.”_

Crowley’s attention was finally pulled away from the statue. He still didn’t pick up the phone, but he did listen to the angel’s little speech.

_“It’s always open to you. ...Goodbye then,”_ it finished.

_Beep_

With a snap of Crowley’s fingers, the message was deleted. Such a polite invitation from his adversary, but he wasn’t about to be fooled by the creature’s tricks. Of course Crowley was a little disoriented, that was to be expected after sleeping for months. Granted, he couldn’t remember what had warranted such a long nap, but he wasn’t so curious that he needed the angel to “explain” why. Crowley would be staying far away from Soho.

He snapped his fingers again, and the statue of the wrestling angel and demon disappeared, along with his headache. Crowley rolled his shoulders, and although he still couldn’t tuck his wings back into the ethereal plane, he could bring them in just a bit closer.

*****

Another three weeks had passed since Aziraphale had given Crowley that call. Now he sat at his desk under the pretense of reading, even using his spectacles, but really he was lost in the same depressive thought process he’d been in for over a month. The only difference was now there were people waltzing around his bookshop as he did it. Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had been scared before he Fell, if he had known what was coming, if he-

“I’d like to make a purchase,” someone said. Aziraphale looked up from his book to see a middle-aged woman holding out one of his first editions. 

Aziraphale blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’d like to make a purchase,” she repeated, then gave the book the tiniest shake using her wrist. “How much might this be?”

“Oh, um… that’s quite alright. You can just keep it,” Aziraphale said, turning back to his book.

“Keep it?” the woman asked, incredulous.

“Mm-hmm.” There was a pause.

The woman slammed the book she was holding on top of the one Aziraphale was pretending to read, drawing the attention of a couple nearby patrons. Aziraphale jumped and looked back up to her.

“Mr. Fell,” she hissed, leaning in close, “I have been trying to purchase a book from your establishment for over four years, and every time you’ve given some silly excuse to prevent me from buying a book. Now you’ve reopened your shop after months of being closed, looking an absolute wreck, not turning a page in your book for at least a half hour, and all you have to say is _‘keep it’_?”

“I- um, you’re quite observant?” the angel stuttered.

The woman straightened up. “One learns to be observant after raising seven children.” Her face softened. “What’s the trouble, Mr. Fell?”

“Trouble?” Aziraphale asked. He gave a single, too-sharp chuckle and fidgeted in his seat. By now, the patrons who had heard the slam had gone back to browzing. “There’s no trouble, miss…”

“Carmine. And don’t lie to me, Mr. Fell. Parents always learn to recognize when someone’s dug themselves into a rut. Now if you can’t tell me what the trouble is, do you at least have someone else to talk to?”

Aziraphale stared at Carmine. This was a human woman; the personal life of a divine being would be incomprehensible to her (or at least none of her business). He would just have to ask her to leave and send her on her way.

“Would you care for some tea?” he blurted.

Carmine smiled. “I would love some.”

Well, shit.

*****

Crowley hadn’t left his flat since he had woken up; going out in public with his wings on display wasn’t the greatest idea. He’d mostly spent the time sifting through his memories, clearing the fuzz in his mind. Now he was once again milling about the place, surveying his decorations. His headache had returned, and he rubbed his temples as he stared at a stone lectern in the shape of an eagle. He focused to remember why he had this one.

He didn’t know where the angel got off calling them friends, but they’d definitely run into each other before. You couldn’t be the representatives of their respective sides on Earth for 6000 years and not cross paths every once in a while. Crowley had taken the eagle lectern in the midst of World War Two, after he had tracked the angel to a church and redirected a bomb to fall on it. He hadn’t been successful in discorporating the creature, but Crowley would never forget the satisfying look of shock on the angel’s face as it stood amongst the wreckage. He’d taken the eagle lectern as a souvenir.

He could recall being fond of it, proud that he had managed to get it out intact. Now, however, the sight of it made his head throb ten times harder than it had with the other statue. Crowley pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead and groaned, but nothing would assuage the pain.

He snapped his fingers and the lectern disappeared. The headache lingered for a few more seconds, but eventually faded away. Just like before, he managed to bring his wings in closer to his body.

Crowley went around his flat, miracling away all the other objects that brought back his headache. The effort left his mind burning, but he could fully extend and retract his wings (save for tucking them back into the ethereal plane). Once he was sure all the problematic decorations were gone, he collapsed onto his couch with a groan, massaging his temples until the throbbing flame in his head left for good. He felt he could think clearer now; most of the confusion the angel had claimed it could explain away was gone.

All except two things: 1.) Crowley still had no idea where his secret weapon had gone and 2.) He wasn’t completely sure how his plants hadn’t all died during his extended nap after his quarrel with a group of angels. (That was what had warranted the nap, he remembered now. Narrow escape, that one.) He chalked up the latter to them knowing better than to wilt on him.

He’d been watering his plants properly since waking up, and now Crowley rose from the couch to find a plant mister. Once he got it, he went about the task as usual, threats here, brooding silence there, until he got to one of his tinier plants.

It seemed to be pointing, stretching one of its tiny leaves as far as it could to the space underneath a table near his safe. Crowley squinted and saw something shining there.

His weapon! It must be! Crowley gave the plant an extra squirt in appreciation and made his way over to the table, kneeling beside it. He reached under, grabbed it, and pulled out what he expected to be a dagger forged in Hell.

Instead, he revealed a tartan-patterned thermos.

Crowley frowned and narrowed his eyes. How had this atrocious thing gotten in his flat? And why did it seem so _familiar?_

It must just be an extra defense to store the real weapon. He unscrewed the top and was about to peek in when his head flared from the stench of what had once been in there.

Holy Water.

A trap, that’s what this was, a trap placed by the angel-

_Who was waiting in the passenger seat of the Bentley._

Crowley dropped the thermos and clutched his head. “No,” he uttered through clenched teeth.

_Crowley was surprised to see him, but he was more concerned with the worry on his angel’s face._

“Stop!” Crowley yelled, doubling over.

_Aziraphale gave Crowley the thermos of Holy Water. Reluctantly, granted, but he still gave it. Crowley had never been more grateful._

_ “I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go.”_

Crowley was breathing heavily. The fire in his head was unbearable, he didn’t think he could take it another second.

_“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”_

Crowley fell onto his side screaming, feeling like he was Falling all over again.


	4. And Then Make Whole

Aziraphale and Carmine sat in the back room, teacups in hand. The angel bounced his leg, not looking Carmine in the eyes.

“So you and Mr. Crowley had a row, then?” asked Carmine.

“Of a sort,” said Aziraphale. 

“It seems to me that it’s just a simple misunderstanding.”

“It is!” exclaimed Aziraphale, finally looking up. “But I’m terribly worried he’ll never let me explain myself to him.”

“Hmmm,” Carmine hummed, setting her cup and saucer on the little table beside her. “You know, my eldest daughter saw him a few months ago.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. Had humans seen Heaven and Hell kidnap them? “She did?”

“Oh, yes. Apparently he worked himself into quite the tizzy at St. James looking for _you_, Mr. Fell,” Carmine said. “Kept accidentally describing himself when he was asking if people had seen you.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said simply, settling back into his chair and tracing the rim of his teacup. “I see.”

Carmine made a face that was partially sympathetic, partially annoyed. “My point is, Mr. Fell, that you and Mr. Crowley share an obvious connection. Out of all the times I’ve been in here to buy something, Mr. Crowley has accompanied you at least half of them. Your affection for each other is plain to see. If the fight you two had was as bad as you say was, then he must be thoroughly convinced you’re not on his side anymore.”

“We _are_ on the same side!” Aziraphale yelled, practically throwing his teacup beside himself on the couch. “We always have been! It’s me who didn’t understand that for so long! I couldn’t- I didn’t-”

Aziraphale tried to will his tears to stay down, he was sick of crying, but they spilled out on their own accord. The guilt of abandoning his friend stopped any hope he had of controlling them.

Carmine rose from her seat and went to sit beside Aziraphale, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I believe you, Mr. Fell. The trouble is that Mr. Crowley doesn’t. Persistence is key, Mr. Fell. You have to show him that you’re committed to making things right, because the situation may not heal itself. If you can’t commit, then you may as well give up. Are you the type to give up, Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale sniffled. Give up on Crowley? It would certainly take an unthinkable amount of time to remind Crowley of their 6000 year relationship, especially while he was so averse to Aziraphale, but Aziraphale knew Crowley would do it for him.

“I think the real question is, ‘Is he the type to fail?’”

Aziraphale and Carmine jumped, looking up. There in the doorway, wearing his trademark smirk, stood the Archangel Gabriel.

*****

Falling.

_“There’s been a change of plans in your punishment, Aziraphale,” Gabriel had said._

Burning.

_“Originally we were going to execute you, but if you want to hang around demons so badly-”_

Unimaginable loss.

_“-why not let you join them?”_

Aziraphale… 

The pounding flame in Crowley’s head subsided enough so that he could gather his bearings. He was still in his flat, sprawled on the floor. Aziraphale’s thermos had rolled away.

Aziraphale, guardian of the Eastern Gate.

Aziraphale, his friend.

Aziraphale, who over a month ago Crowley had yelled at, had dared to smite him.

Crowley sat up with a groan, clutching his head, trying to sort out which of his memories were real and which were fake. About halfway through the process, he realized he could finally put his wings back into the ethereal plane.

At last, his infernal headache disappeared, but it was replaced by overwhelming guilt. How could he have ever thought Aziraphale was his enemy? That they had been actively trying to kill each other for millennia?

Crowley looked upwards. “What am I supposed to _do?_”

Neither God nor the ceiling gave Crowley an answer, but when his gaze lowered, he spotted his tiny plant. It was still pointing at the thermos, but now it also stretched one of its leaves towards the door as if saying, “What are you waiting for? Get a move on!”

In a rush of determination, Crowley grabbed the thermos, screwed on its top, and ran out of his flat. The Bentley hadn’t been driven in over four months, but it roared to life as soon as Crowley opened the driver-side door. He tore down the street, not bothering to take out a new pair of sunglasses. He planned to apologize profusely, to the end of time if that’s what it took.

Crowley told himself that Aziraphale would forgive him in an effort to calm his fraying nerves. Aziraphale always forgave him if he asked him to.

*****

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, smirk still plastered on his face, “or whatever your name is now. How is damnation treating you?”

“Carmine,” Aziraphale said in a low voice, keeping his eyes trained on Gabriel, “the bookshop is closed. Get yourself and everyone else out of here.”

The hand Carmine had on Aziraphale’s shoulder gave a squeeze. “Mr. Fell-”

“Go!” he yelled, whipping around. Any trace of tears was gone from his face, replaced by stony features and a rage in his eyes.

Carmine bit her lip, glanced at Gabriel, and then obeyed. Aziraphale sent a miracle after her, causing the rest of the patrons to leave without asking questions when she told them to go. Gabriel and Aziraphale had a stare down while she did the task, but Aziraphale saw Carmine out of the corner of his eye as she took the book she had tried to buy out of her purse and laid it gently on his desk. She took one last look at the back room before exiting herself.

For another few moments, both angels remained silent. Then Aziraphale asked, “What are you doing here, Gabriel?”

The Archangel strode a few steps into the room, looking around. “Still puttering around in your clutter, I see. Trying to cling to your old existence?”

Aziraphale stood abruptly. “What do you _want?_”

Gabriel puffed out his lips in a mockery of disapproval. “Oh, come now.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and began to slowly stalk toward Aziraphale. “You’ve become a demon. You look awful, you’re obviously miserable, and even your little pal can’t stand the sight of you anymore. The one who’s grown immune to Holy Water.”

Crowley. Aziraphale looked down; Gabriel wasn’t wrong. “What’s your point?” Aziraphale muttered.

Gabriel smiled. “Oh, Azi. I’m an angel.”

He suddenly rushed Aziraphale, pinning him to the back wall by pressing his left forearm to Aziraphale’s neck. In his other hand he held a celestial dagger, a weapon that could eradicate both demons and angels. Still smiling, Gabriel said, “I’m here to show _mercy._”

Aziraphale could have fought Gabriel off, Principalities outclassed Archangels by one rank in the holy hierarchy after all, but what did he have to live for? Crowley hated him, had forgotten their whole life together. It was quite possible they’d never share a lunch or a drink or a walk in the park ever again, and that fact seemed to drain the joy out of everything else. Perhaps it was better for Aziraphale to die here with Crowley despising him instead of chasing after a past that might never be brought back.

So instead of fighting, Aziraphale just closed his eyes and prepared for oblivion.

_THUNK_

“Ow! What the-?”

“Let go of him, you bastard!”

Aziraphale’s eyes shot open and his breath hitched in his throat. Gabriel was clutching the back of his head with the same hand that held the dagger. A tartan-patterned thermos that Aziraphale hadn’t seen in decades had rolled away on the floor. He let out a small gasp at the sight of a furious looking Crowley on the other side of the room.

“I said,” Crowley hissed through clenched teeth, “let him go. Or I’ll make you.”

Gabriel glared at the demon. “Fine, then.”

He threw Aziraphale to the ground with such a force that the Principality was momentarily dazed. Gabriel charged Crowley and the two sparred.

Crowley fought valiantly, but he was no match for the Archangel. The second he slipped up, Gabriel sliced the demon’s bicep with the celestial dagger. Crowley cried out and Gabriel swept his legs, causing him to fall on his injured arm.

“Funny,” Gabriel said, face portraying anything but humor, “when Michael was telling me about your newfound trick, she sounded terrified, but it seems immunity to Holy Water is your only talent.” He raised the dagger and Crowley’s eyes widened.

“NO!” yelled Aziraphale.

Energy that Aziraphale hadn’t called on in millennia- the power of a Principality- suddenly coursed through his body. In less than a second, he was off of the floor and behind Gabriel. Aziraphale picked up the Archangel by the back of his jacket and flung him through the open doorway. In the main room, Gabriel crashed into a bookshelf. Aziraphale willed the shelf not to topple, and so it didn’t.

Aziraphale offered a hand to Crowley, but the demon didn’t take it. “I’m sorry, angel, really I am! I was confused, I couldn’t think properly, I-”

But Aziraphale was only half listening. Most of Crowley’s face displayed regret, genuine sadness over what had happened. However, there was a tiny spark in the back of Crowley’s eyes that Aziraphale focused on.

Fear. The same fear he had had when Aziraphale had tried to explain himself all those weeks ago, and it broke Aziraphale’s heart all over again.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his true voice echoing out. “We are friends. I will prove it to you. I will not let anyone harm you again.”

“Aziraphale-” Crowley began, but the Principality had already turned away. He marched into the main room, wings fully out and spread, his body exuding holy wrath.

Gabriel had managed to push himself into a half-seated position. A cut on his head leaked the golden-white blood of his essence as well as the red blood of his corporation. He gaped at Aziraphale in a mix of awe and terror. “Y-you haven’t Fallen?” Gabriel stammered. “I saw you burn! I pushed you out myself!”

Aziraphale’s energy flared at the thought of Gabriel laying his cold hands on Crowley to shove him out of Heaven, probably smiling as he did it.

Gabriel shielded his face and used the bookshelf to heave himself off of the floor. “Don’t get mad at me! God wouldn’t have let me toss you out if you weren’t meant to Fall!”

Aziraphale thought on that. Perhaps he wasn’t meant to Fall. God certainly hadn’t done the job Herself yet. Crowley, however, had already been cast out. What was to stop someone from tossing him overboard again?

Aziraphale gave his wings a single, powerful flap. “Yet here I am, still within Her good graces.”

He rushed to Gabriel and picked him up by his lapels. The Archangel managed to flare his own power and deliver an open hand strike to Aziraphale’s face, breaking his corporation’s nose. Aziraphale threw Gabriel across the room, where he landed and broke a table, scattering books, loose papers, and a few feathers.

Aziraphale’s eyes glowed with righteous fury. “I will ensure that you never hurt me or my friend ever again, Archangel Gabriel.” Dozens of eyes peered out through the feathers of his wings, and the appendages seemed to catch fire as he prepared to smite the cowering Gabriel.

But then a hand fell on his shoulder. “Please, angel,” Crowley whispered. “Don’t. He’s not worth it, and I know you’re better than this.”

That’s all it took for Aziraphale’s resolve to break. The flame and glow around his body diminished, the eyes in his wings went back into their hiding places, and the wings themselves faded back into the ethereal plane. Aziraphale blinked his usual blue-green eyes and looked at his friend. “Crowley?”

The demon smiled and put his other hand on Aziraphale’s other shoulder, spinning the angel toward him. “I’m here, angel. Don’t you leave me when I just got back.”

Aziraphale noticed the blood running down his face and held a hand up to his nose. “Oh dear, he clocked me good, it seems.”

Crowley passed a hand over his angel’s face and the nose snapped back into place, the blood disappearing. Then Crowley snapped his fingers and the tears and misplaced seams in Aziraphale’s clothing repaired themselves. “Better?” he asked.

Aziraphale smiled and gripped Crowely’s hands. “Much.”

“You two,” Gabriel spat from the floor. “What _are_ you?!”

Crowley fixed him with a deadly stare but didn’t let go of Aziraphale. “We’re a demon immune to Holy Water and a Principality immune to Falling. Quite the duo, aren’t we? Probably would want to avoid messing with us again, yeah?”

Gabriel said nothing, just glared at the two, apparently trying to find some way to save his pride.

Now Crowley took a few steps towards him. “I said, you probably want to avoid us, _yes?_”

In a blink, the Archangel was gone, for good this time. Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, eyes downcast. “Angel, look, I really am sorry that- oof!”

Aziraphale wrapped Crowley in a bone-crushing hug. “I thought you were gone!” he sobbed. “You were asleep for so long and then you didn’t know me at all! How did you remember everything on your own so quickly?”

Crowley returned the embrace, one hand carding through Aziraphale’s hair. “Sentimentality, apparently,” he chuckled. “There were so many things to replace that I couldn’t get them all.”

Aziraphale sniffed and hugged Crowley tighter. “I missed you very much, my dear.”

Crowley winced but stayed where he was. “I missed you, too.”

“Oh Crowley, your arm! Sit down, sit down,” Aziraphale said, guiding Crowley to the nearest couch.

“I’m fine, angel, really,” Crowley said, but let Aziraphale take a look at the injury up close. It was long, but not too deep, and the black, ichor-like blood of his essence was slowing in its seepage.

“I can heal this, but it may take some time,” Aziraphale said. Just as when he had dialed Crowley’s number automatically, Aziraphale went to get his best reds to share on instinct.

“Don’t worry about the arm, angel,” Crowley called. “I don’t think we’re pressed for time anymore.”

Aziraphale returned and set a couple bottles and glasses down. “And your wings! The last time I saw you they seemed injured.”

“Oh, well...” Crowley sat up straighter and manifested his wings. They were still blacker than night and shone purple in the sunlight. “They were, for a while, but they’re fine now.”

Aziraphale stepped forward and ran a hand down one of them, feeling the smooth, glossy feathers. “They’re beautiful,” he whispered.

Crowley smiled and poured out two glasses of wine while Aziraphale continued to admire his wings, then handed one to his angel. “Shall we toast to anything?”

Aziraphale thought, then gave a soft smile. “To the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a ride! I said it before, but thank you all so much for your support, I truly hope you've all enjoyed reading. This actually took me about two months to write (college is a busy time, folks), so if you hear from me again soon, it'll be a REAL miracle. There should be more Crowley and Aziraphale from me again eventually, though, next time in a cowboy au! 'Till next time, happy reading!


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